


Sequistrialis

by valamerys



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, IDK Y'ALL I GOT NOTHIN, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Pollen, in that sex pollen way u kno how it is, kinda dubcon, take it, this happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 11:28:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10661637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valamerys/pseuds/valamerys
Summary: “The flowers didn’t make me want you, I’ve wanted you this whole time; please, Lucien.”A little growl escapes him, and Feyre gets impossibly slicker at the feral expression that overtakes his face, lips curling back before they descend hard on hers.





	Sequistrialis

**Author's Note:**

> so, anyway, i desperately need acowar because i'm going insane

Feyre’s not sure how this happened. One minute she and Lucien had tied up the horses to follow rabbit trails on foot, hunting just for the sake of it. (For each other’s company, really; Feyre can admit to herself only in her mind. She’s not sure which of them would be more reluctant to say it aloud.)

And now he’s almost flat on his back in a field of flowers and she’s straddling him, gripped by a vicious, unrelenting ache for his cock inside her.

“Feyre,” He pants against her mouth, inbetween harsh, sloppy kisses. He’s as lost as she is, and groans as she grinds against him, against the hard, thick ridge in his pants. Why is it still in his pants?

“Fuck me,” Feyre says, guttural even to her own ears, and she reaches for the laces keeping her from what she wants.

Lucien struggles to push himself up, to form coherent words around the arousal. “Feyre. It’s– don’t.”

“Why not,” she recognizes dimly that the words are slurred, her movements sloppy, but her cunt is _throbbing_ , she needs him, she needs him–

“It’s the–” he hisses as she gets the laces undone enough to work him free, rubs him teasingly. “It’s the– _fuck_ –the _flowers_.”

Feyre’s mind is like a sieve that can’t hold anything but the last sound he made and how beautiful he is, and she answers him by ducking her head to lave at his neck, suck at the sweat-dampened skin there, hand stroking at his length.

Brow creasing, an arm going around her, he grits out, “I–mm, hold on to me, I–think I can still–”

For a split second, the world turns sideways and winks out and Feyre feels like she’s falling, their position all jumbled up–

“–Winnow,” he finishes, eyes still glazed over, face still flushed red, and suddenly they are both tangled on the ground, him on top of her.

Feyre is vaguely confused–are they somewhere else? There aren’t any flowers here, the ground seems harder–but no matter, Lucien’s here, and he’s on top of her now, and her body knows this position, responds to it instinctively. A whine works its way from her throat as she touches his chest, hips tilting, seeking his.

“Lucien,” she whimpers. “Need you.”

“I’m here,” it’s tangled with roughness and relief in equal parts. His eyes trace her lips, his hand is on her thigh, but there is some conflict within him. “It’s–it’s okay. We’re out of the flowers, Feyre, it’s okay.”

Feyre makes a dissatisfied noise; he’s not kissing her or touching her or any of the other things he should be doing. She settles for pressing needy kisses to his chest where she can reach it, where she’d coaxed open the deep V neckline of his shirt moments ago. “Lucien,” she whines again, against his skin, and she takes the hand from her thigh, moves it to the uppermost part of her inner thigh– “touch me.”

Feyre can feel the lust still in him, in the tenseness of his muscles as he holds himself over her, in the press of his still-hard cock against her leg, but he hesitates. And maybe the distance from the flowers makes her head clear just enough to figure out why, because she says, darkly, with breathless effort, “the flowers didn’t make me want you, I’ve wanted you this whole time; _please_ , Lucien.”

A little growl escapes him, and Feyre gets impossibly slicker at the feral expression that overtakes his face, lips curling back before they descend hard on hers. Feyre gasps into it, the feel of it, hot and seeking. She thinks she might be dizzy not with magic pollen but with _him_ , with his heavy, smoky scent and the long, silky hair she tangles her fingers into, tugs a little on.

It earns her another savage noise, and Feyre shudders under his hands, which have gone to pick her dress apart, half a mess as it is from earlier.

“Forget the dress,” she stammers, when he breaks the kiss to growl in frustration at the tiny laces. “Forget the dress, just fuck me.”

Lucien obliges, pushing at her layers of skirts so quickly some of them rip in an effort to get between her legs.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” he grunts as he fumbles for her undergarments, hooks his clever fingers into them and pulls them down. His fingers dive back up to part her folds and Feyre makes a strangled noise, at finally, finally being touched where she needs it.

“Cauldron fucking shit,” He hisses, eyes falling closed, chest heaving, “You’re so wet, Feyre.”

“So fuck me already,” and it comes out so much weaker than she meant it, but he’s obeying anyway, tearing at the laces of his pants where she’s loosened them already.

She’s thought about fucking Lucien– cauldron save her, an embarrassing number of times now– and she always pictured it slow, tender; articulate and teasing, not a frenzied, desperate fuck on the forest floor, both of them a little high on magic flowers.

But as he frees himself, positions himself back over her with the urgency of a man possessed, and pushes into her with one long, agonizing thrust, it’s so much better than anything she imagined. Her back arches beyond her control, his name claws it’s way past her teeth and he murmurs hers, fucking her hard, relentless, she never has to ask, it’s just what they both need. The overwhelming thickness inside her makes her grasp at the ground, at Lucien’s shirt, at his hair, pulling it until he snarls, hoists her legs over his arms and pulls her hips to his harshly, again and again–

It doesn’t last long for either of them. Lucien rubs his thumb against her clit and she’s coming, legs trembling, feeling like she’s falling for the second time that day, and he follows her with a hoarse yell, preternaturally strong fingers pressing slender bruises into her fragile human hips.

His head finds her chest, when the frenzied energy runs itself dry, and he slumps beside her. After a few moments of harsh breathing, an explanation staggers out of him. “People– people get caught in those flowers, if they don’t get out– fuck themselves to death.”

Feyre, not sure if words will even obey her yet, slurs out, “That doesn’t sound like such a bad way to go.”


End file.
